Visions That Don’t Exist

I have memories that don’t exist
but persist in me.
Roads resembling France.
Mountains with deep, green canyons
of snow.
Estates and houses.

Perhaps everyone has visions that don’t exist.
They seem like places that search for us.
An ambience that wants the juices
of love in us.
And we want them to be red
for reasons mysterious.
A parched paper losing its shreds on a wall,
and you wonder who chose it,
why it appealed to them.

Is it possible we live other lives
before this one?
That its residues persist and occupy us.
Or that there are parallel worlds
that live in us.
Parallel times that belong to us,
sometimes touching,
and leaving a sorrow here,
a love song there,
a vision consummated and repeated
like a shadow on the wall.